


idle hands

by 221BFakerStreet



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Breeding, Bunker Sex, Bunker buddies, Conditioning, Dubious Consent, F/M, Joseph Seed being a creeper, Joseph Seed's beautiful hands, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Psychological Trauma, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sex, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Somnophilia, Stockholm Syndrome, Vaginal Sex, but it turns into regular boning, everybody gets one, i am the Oprah of concerning and upsetting emotional attachments, just mentioned though, still problematic af though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 03:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/221BFakerStreet
Summary: You should befurious. You should stab him in the throat with a stray pen and watch him bleed out, his dream unrealized. For all that he's done to you, to those you called friends, you should make him pay in kind. But the panic that rises in you at the thought of beingaloneis enough to quash that rising tide of wrathful vengeance.After the bombs drop, and the world is gone... it's just you and The Father.





	idle hands

You have a thing for Joseph's hands.

The bunker is quiet and still most days- whatever a day _is_ now, anyway. But quiet is relative in this new and frightening Eden, and you hear small sounds like the draw of breath from the cot next to yours, or the soothing lap of water in the basin where he swirls a cotton cloth in order to clean you. And those _hands_ , so gentle in their ministrations, pressing into your skin only firmly enough to lift an arm or a leg, but he might as well be branding you like cattle.

Joseph Seed takes _care_ of you, and you curse yourself only briefly for how _good_ it feels to be taken care of, to be cared _for_. You have spent so long fighting battles not your own, and the long trail of scars that carve a path up your body feel nearly holy as he touches you with such reverence.

“You have sacrificed _so_ much, my child,” he says, his voice as hushed but intense as ever it has been. You cannot help the way your body responds to a kind word, a familiar voice: you lean forward, pushing your cheek against his palm, and your eyes flutter shut.

You feel his thumb brush against your mouth, and your lips part minutely against it, a chaste kiss. He gasps, a puff of warm breath against your forehead, and you smile.

* * *

On the seventh day, He sets you free.

Your wrists are bandaged carefully, and he presses a kiss to each when he is done. “Thank you,” you whisper, and duck your head to hide your smile. To hide your shame.

It is so _easy_ to fall into him. Absent the chaotic pull of so many warring voices and moral quandaries, it becomes a question of how you will live now. Survival, you have found, is a gateway drug.

You should be _furious_. You should stab him in the throat with a stray pen and watch him bleed out, his dream unrealized. For all that he's done to you, to those you called friends, you should make him pay in kind. But the panic that rises in you at the thought of being _alone_ is enough to quash that rising tide of wrathful vengeance. And besides, you tell yourself, haven't you both been hurting each other this whole time? Despite what they had done, the monsters they chose to become, you took away his family, and he took yours in turn. An eye for an eye, and now you are both sightless scared creatures living underground. In the dark.

But Joseph does not _look_ scared as he leans into you, lips pressed against the pulse on your throat. Your blood sings through your veins, a testament, a revelation. What frightens you most isn't the way he seems at ease handling your body as though it is an extension of himself, but rather the safety you feel in the gesture; the longing, the tenderness.

You are a weapon, undone by a gentle touch.

* * *

The first time he takes you to bed, all he does is hold you. It is unnerving at first, still unused as you are to being treated with the care he so freely gives. You are certain you will have to pay for it later; the bill always comes due.

For now, he simply holds you close in the dark, cards long fingers through your hair. He whispers that song in your ear, _Amazing Grace_ , and it sends shivers down your spine. You put your hand over his when he pulls you close, one arm lying over your waist and the other pillowed under your neck, gripping at your opposite shoulder and both pulling you flush against him. Trapped, but warm, you drift in a haze of half-asleep memory.

You awake to screaming, not realizing it's your own until Joseph's eerily calm voice pulls you back from the edge of whatever precipice you've been dreaming of. The sheets are tangled between you, a mess of cotton and sweat, but Joseph's hands are so gentle, and they move you exactly where you need to be; your arms folded up between your chest and his, head resting on his shoulder. Cocooned once again in his unnatural warmth. You sigh, a shuddering, gasping thing, not quite a cry.

“What ails you, child?” He asks it on a quiet exhale, holding you to his naked chest and rocking you gently.

“I don’t know,” you reply, voice croaking with the strain of your tears and your nameless fear. In the beginning there was nothing. God was the void and Creation sprung from him like terrible and beautiful thoughts given form. And you wonder if God made you, or if you were born from the death of a star convulsing into a kaleidoscope of glowing atoms or collapsing under the weight of its own gravitational force. You wonder if Joseph was right, as it seems he has been since the beginning, and you were built from the molten core of the Earth- from rage, and pain, and the hands of the Devil himself.

“Sing to me?” you ask, unable to bear the press of your own thoughts, like stones piled on you, one atop another atop the next.

And he does.

* * *

One night you wake to Joseph's hands ( _those gentle hands that have bathed in the blood of sinners_ ) caressing your arms, tracing the outline of your hip. The bunker is dark, only a soft light from the hall peeking in through the doorway to the bedroom. Your breathing is still deep and even, half asleep, lulled by his touches, his hot breath on the back of your neck.

He shifts so slowly, breath hitching as he lines himself up behind you, body pressed flush against your back. You can feel him there, pushing against your thigh, hard and hot. Your own breath catches, and he stills. You try to calm your heartbeat, breathe deeply again to settle your nerves. Moving just so, like you might be shifting in your sleep, he slots so easily into the apex of your thighs where the heat and wetness give you away- like he was _made_ for it, for _you_.

“Rook?” he asks, voice rough with the remnants of sleep and his need that you can feel burning against you. Your answer is to push away, but only long enough to slide your panties down your thighs and press back against him.

He groans into the back of your neck, and you can feel him- the warm skin of his belly against your lower back, the slick hot press of him as he pushes between your folds. There is pleasure coiling in your gut like a snake, rubber band tight and electric as you roll your hips. Joseph grunts and wraps his arms around you, one sliding under your waist and the other lining himself up properly. His cock slides into you, stretching your cunt to fit him- and you haven't even seen it yet, but it feels so _good_ and you breathe his name in the dark like a prayer to a God you once believed in. Once he's inside, his right hand comes up to fondle your breasts through the thin cotton shirt you wore to bed. The fabric rubs at your skin, and you whine loudly as he thrusts into you. His rhythm is slow and patient, but intense- purposeful- and you move back against him with the same wildness that had you blowing up silos and running roughshod through miles of forest to try and escape your fate. He holds you tight, grinding into you, torturing you with a sweet friction which steals the breath from your lungs and leaves you aching between your legs in a way that almost painful.

“Rook,” he whimpers into your ear, and you clench down on his cock and cum with a wounded shout at the knowledge of how you have unmanned him, laid him bare as he has done to you so many times before. His thrusts become erratic, breath halted, until he shudders, and you feel the hot gush of his spend inside you. A hot spear of lust and panic shoots down your spine at the thought of becoming pregnant, but you tamp it down into the box of your subconscious to be unpacked later, if at all.

Right now, you only feel his breath against your neck, his gentle, terrible hands caressing your skin, the steady beat of both of your hearts. You turn, and he grunts as he slips from you. Your arms find their way around him, intertwining your legs together; a tangled mess at the end of the world. There was never a pit, you reason, never a lick of hellfire to burn in; there was only ever your shame, your sin, your virulent _need_ writ across the skin of the earth like a map leading you right back here to Him.

“Joseph,” you whisper.

He kisses your forehead, lips moving against your skin to whisper your absolution. You lie like this, his arms enfolding you, his gentle humming words lulling you into dreamless sleep.


End file.
